7:59 PM.
Macon saved his report, turned off his screen and grabbed his jacket. No way he was staying a second longer. Unpaid overtime was to him one of the most unbearable things that could exist in an office worker's life.
His phone buzzed.
Group - Amine: Bar Chixx tonight?
He replied without thinking.
Macon: Yeah definitely.
On the bus there was almost nobody.
He opened the news out of habit. Disappearances again - always the same profiles, young loners, no trace, no explanation. He sighed inwardly and kept scrolling.
He looked up for a second.
In the back of the bus - a kid. Fifteen, sixteen maybe, brown hair hidden under a beanie, a hoodie pulled over everything, eyes somewhere far away. The kind of kid who looked like he was trying to disappear into his clothes.
Macon looked back at his phone. Then looked up again.
The seat was empty.
He frowned. He hadn't heard the bus stop. Hadn't heard footsteps. He looked toward the front - just the driver. He looked toward the door - closed.
There was nobody there.
He blinked. Looked again.
Empty.
He put his phone away and decided not to think about it too hard.
The evening was exactly what he needed. Amine showed up first - which was statistically impossible - Chérif ordered too much, everyone talked at once. Macon drank his non-alcoholic cocktails, laughed, forgot about the office, forgot about the kid on the bus.
Almost.
He walked home. Ten minutes, evening air, hands in his pockets. He wasn't thinking about anything in particular when his phone buzzed.
6:03 AM.
Unknown number.
He hesitated. Probably spam - it happened. He picked up anyway.
Silence first. Then a voice.
His voice.
- Don't trust them.
He stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk.
It was him. His own voice, his accent, his way of speaking. But he'd never said that sentence. He was certain of it.
He looked at the screen. The call had ended.
He stood still for thirty seconds, phone in hand, in the middle of the street.
Then he went home.
He fell asleep on the couch, still dressed, shoes on.
When he woke up it still looked like day - or something that resembled day. A strange light through the window, somewhere in between. He looked at his phone.
6:07. Same date.
He got up. Walked to the front door. Opened it.
The light hit him all at once - white, total, blinding. He stepped back but the floor wasn't there anymore.
He fell.
White.
Not the black void he'd expected - not a fall into darkness. White. A total, crushing white that almost burned the eyes. He landed on something solid - a floor, smooth, also white - and stayed on his knees until his vision adjusted.
He wasn't alone.
People. Everywhere around him - standing, sitting, some on their knees like him. Fifty maybe. Men, women, young, not so young. Some were shouting. Some were crying. Others looked around in silence, eyes wide.
Macon stood up slowly.
-What's happening? said someone next to him. A woman, forties, hair disheveled. She was looking in every direction like an exit was going to appear.
- I don't know, Macon answered honestly.
And then he saw her.
She was at the center of the space - enormous, not in terms of physical size but in terms of presence. Like the air around her was different, heavier, more charged. She had a human shape but something was off - not in a monstrous way, just in an obvious way. Her eyes were too clear. Her voice when she spoke resonated everywhere at once like the walls - if there were walls - sent the sound back from every direction.
- My name is Nyxael, she said. And you are not supposed to be here.
Immediate silence. Even those who were shouting stopped.
- Where are we? someone shouted from the back.
- Between. Between worlds. A transit space. You shouldn't have been pulled here - it was a routing error. I'm going to correct that.
- A routing error? repeated a tall man, arms crossed, looking completely unconvinced. You're talking about us like we're packages.
- That's roughly accurate, said Nyxael without apologizing.
Macon was watching the scene without speaking. He was looking for familiar faces - not that he expected to find any, just by reflex. And then he saw him.
The kid from the bus.
Beanie, hoodie, brown hair. Standing a few meters away, eyes fixed on Nyxael with an expression Macon couldn't read. Not fear. Not really surprise either.
Something else.
Nyxael started calling names.
Not names Macon recognized -designations, codes maybe, something that corresponded to each person in a way he didn't understand. Each time she called one, the person simply disappeared - a flash of white light and nothing.
Sent somewhere.
The kid was called pretty early. He stepped forward without hesitating, without looking around, and disappeared like the others. Macon watched him go with that same strange feeling - that kid knew something he didn't.
The calls continued. The crowd thinned.
Macon waited for his name.
It didn't come.
When Nyxael stopped there were about a dozen people left. Macon counted quickly - eleven others besides him. Some were starting to get agitated.
- What about us? said the woman next to Macon.
Nyxael looked at them. Something in her expression changed - not pity, not exactly. More like discomfort, if a deity could feel discomfort.
-For you it's more complicated.
- More complicated how? said the man with his arms crossed.
- You require a world with special criteria. That world isn't available yet. In the meantime you'll be placed in a temporary space.
-temporary for how long? someone else asked.
- I can't give you a precise timeframe.
- Why special criteria? shouted a voice from the back. What's different about us compared to the others?
Nyxael didn't answer that.
- Wait, said Macon. The phrase. The voice on the phone - what was that?
She looked at him directly. Something passed through her too-clear eyes -recognition maybe, or very well-controlled surprise.
- I don't know what you're talking about, she said.
Then she raised her hand.
Don't trust them.
The phrase crossed his mind at the exact moment the white light swallowed him.
Dark.
Macon landed on something cold, smooth, black. He stayed on his knees for a moment, palms flat. Around him sounds - people falling, swearing, calling out.
He looked up.
The void. A black floor that felt like water. Motionless lights in the distance.
And eleven other people looking around exactly like him - lost, angry, without answers.
He took out his phone.
6:07.
He put it away.
Don't trust them.
He looked at the eleven others. He looked at the void. He thought about Nyxael who had said I don't know what you're talking about one second before sending him here.
He thought that this was already starting badly.